


Senses

by Hopeamarsu



Category: Tracks (2013)
Genre: Angst, Feeling of Isolation, Gen, Norway - Freeform, One-Sided Attraction, Senja Island, Touch-Starved, Travel, orcas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-12 04:55:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28629870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hopeamarsu/pseuds/Hopeamarsu
Summary: We see Rick through the five major senses.
Relationships: Rick Smolan/You





	1. Touch

Some call it restlessness.

Others call it wanderlust. 

Rick calls it a way of life.

He’s in and out of the country more often than not. Countless hours spent on a plane, on airports, traveling to a location and out of a location with cars that are high end and falling apart. And he wouldn’t change a minute of his adventures. 

Being a photographer, seeing the world through his lens is what he lives for. The thrill of the chase for that elusive perfect photo, the high that comes with seeing his creation on the cover of a magazine. 

But lately… Lately, Rick has been feeling tired. Not for travel, never for travel. Not for photography either, that is what he lives and breaths for. But he is tired of something. Something that is not tangible, not an object but a feeling. Call it loneliness, isolation, or being alone, it’s the closest Rick can describe what he is feeling. 

His life will always be solitary, Rick knew that when he signed up with National Geographic. Traveling the world, his life consists of packed bags and not many personal belongings. And he is okay with that, not many material possessions can compare to the wonders he’s been privileged enough to witness. 

Is solitary life what he wants though? Maybe not. He sees so many families, couples, lovers, and friends, humans with their animal companions on his travels as he captures them in film. And he basks in the warmth of those connections while he talks with his subjects, his models, and pets the animals, enjoying how the fur or skin feels on his skin. Sometimes at the end of the day though, when he sits on his solitary bed in his hotel room, he feels the pull of the feeling again. 

Rick blows into his coffee as he mulls over the thought of that feeling once again. He’s back home, in between assignments, and he can feel the feeling grow in him. It’s easier to shake it off when he’s traveling, even if it creeps on him some nights when he can’t get to sleep fast enough. But at home, just sitting and waiting or working on his coffee table book, that’s when it is the hardest. 

To have someone to hold, to take the hand of, to hug and kiss.

To be held, to be kissed, and to have someone waiting for him when he returns home. 

To touch. 

That’s all he really wants. 

It hits him like a ton of bricks when Rick gets what he feels tired of. Tired of being void of touch. The realization brings tears to his eyes and he tries to blink them away rapidly. It will not do any good break down in the middle of a busy coffee shop across from the magazine headquarters. Not when Rick has a meeting in less than an hour to get his next assignment. Something that will take him out of the country again, for how long he does not yet know. He takes another sip of the coffee in front of him, willing to calm him. 

He adjusts his gold-rimmed glasses, discreetly wiping the corners of his eyes under them. Hopes no one sees him as he drowns the rest of his cup and rises from the chair. He leaves a small tip on the table as he steps out of the door, breathing in the fresh morning air. 

It is time for another adventure. And that will be enough. It will have to be.


	2. Listen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Rick heads to his next trip, a tiny glimmer of hope emerges.

The steady hum of the plane engines. 

The soft voice of the air stewardess asking if the row behind him would like a refill of coffee.

The child three rows in front of him giggling at something her father mentioned.

The anxious tapping of fingers against the tray across the aisle. 

Rick has heard it all and he’s quite used to it by now. And it’s not even the worst cacophony of sounds he’s had the pleasure of hearing when flying. Actually, it’s quite pleasant, the sounds mixing together to create a symphony that will hopefully be enough to lull him to sleep. He’s counting on it too, it’s always better to sleep on the plane. It gives him the chance to better take in the new country and its rich customs right after landing.

Tromsø, Norway. National Geographic is looking for pictures about whales as humpback whales, orcas, and even long finbacks have been reported in these areas (concentrated around Senja island which is his ultimate destination) and the magazine has decided to send in Rick as well as a reporter to capture it all. 10 days on the icy landscape before they return. 

The magazine is also hoping for general landscape pictures of fjords and the mountains that surround the area and Rick is excited by the prospect of spending 10 days filming it all. It will hopefully help with his coffee table book too. 

It will not be an easy feat though. Northern Norway, as far as Rick has understood, has only a handful of hours of daylight per day which will mean that he will only be able to shoot during those hours. But he has been told about the northern lights and the dance of lights in the sky and Rick can’t wait to see those. And, should he be lucky enough, capture them on film too. 

He’s ripped from his thoughts when he hears melodic laughter overcome all the other sounds. The voice caresses his ears and for once Rick is glad that they are big as they tingle with the vibration of that sound. The tingle spreads throughout his body and he shivers with the feeling. 

It’s almost intoxicating, how he reacts to the voice. Rick turns a little in his seat, ears strained on the sound, trying to pinpoint its origin. He wants more of it, all of it. He wants to hear that voice whisper thing in his skin, in his ears, let it glide over his body and cover him completely. 

He wants to close his eyes, press his ear against that voice, let it wash over him like the warm waves of the ocean. The first thing in the morning he hears, the last thing in the evening before falling asleep. 

Is he really that starved for human connection that a voice reduces him to think these fantasies? Rick shakes his head a little, trying to clear his mind but again the laughter pierces the air and he finds himself pulled in once again. The notes of the voice fill him like the first pull of air after diving for so long, like the first whiff of grass after a long winter, the first feel of rain falling down his face. 

Rick feels like he is in love. But can you fall in love with just the voice, the sound, the notes? He tries craning his neck, again thanking his larger than life figure for giving him the space to work out where the sound is coming from.

He sees the back of people’s heads, but nothing to give an indication of where the laughter came from. Maybe one of the seats where he cannot see the occupant as they are shorter than the headrest. No matter how he tries to turn his head and his body on the less than pleasant seat to get a good look at everyone around him, nothing jumps out. 

After a few minutes of twisting and turning, of trying to hone in on the singular sound, Rick feels himself deflating. The laughter is no longer there, it hasn’t popped up again and he returns to his normal position. He reminds himself though that the plane is not big and Rick will have a better chance at the baggage reclaim. He clings to that notion, surely he can hear the sound again. 

He needs to.


	3. Scent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What does nothing smell like?

It smells almost like nothing.

No scent of anything.

Well, almost no scent. Rick can still smell the salt of the sea, the fishes that their guide-slash-local fisherman is gutting so that he can roast them over the open fire that is their main source of warmth right now. The smell of smoke from the wood is a little bitter, but that doesn’t bother Rick at all. Because he can smell open, fresh air and see nothing for miles.

It’s nothing like he has ever encountered. In his travels, he’s smelled some of the world's most foulest and prettiest scents. His home in New York is full of conflicting smells, often bad and rotten, the exhaust fumes covering what the restaurants and cigarette smoke cannot. Don’t get him wrong, there are plenty of pleasant smells in New York too. But this? This cleanliness? The freshness? It’s unimaginable. 

He wraps his thick jacket tighter around his torso, huddling for warmth as he is determined not to step inside the small cabin that will serve as their base station for the next 10 days. 

No, Rick needs to take in all this vast landscape, where all his senses feel so small yet so free in his surroundings. His mind, normally buzzing with camera angles and optimal lighting is quiet for once. He can only be in the moment, the clean air in his lungs and the fresh scent of it all. And he loves that, the calm that spreads in his body. Rick feels _at peace_ , something that is usually not within reach for him.

“Lukter godt, ikke sant?” 

The fisherman comments from closer to the fire, the voice raspy and low, like he has smoked all his life and enjoyed his share of whiskey along the way. Maybe he has, the white beard and wrinkled lines around his eyes and mouth suggest that he has lived a full life. Rick turns his body towards him, listening even when he cannot speak in return.

“Jeg har bodd hele mitt livet i Tromsø og jeg elsker fortsatt lukten av flammende laks. Ville ikke endre det for noe.” He continues, not bothered by the least of the fact that Rick does not understand a lick of Norwegian. But what he lacks in language skills, he can almost understand with his eyes, ears and nose. So the tall man nods at the fisherman, tucking his gloved hands into his pockets. 

Rick almost wishes he had his camera ready now, as the fire dances in the darkness, casting shadows around the old man as he turns the fishes roasting next to the fire. He looks like the scents have come alive around him, the spices and herbs dancing on his body, light and dark mixing, with the smell of the burning wood completing the image of a true warrior soul. It’s something Rick would love to capture on film. His hand itches for the trigger of the shutter but he doesn’t move from his spot. The moment feels too delicate to break somehow. 

The fish starts to smell cooked. _Maybe it’s salmon?_ The pink flesh looks vaguely familiar and Rick remembers reading something about ocean-farmed salmon that is a new thing in Norway. Whatever they are, they smell wonderful, all the seasonings complimenting each other and the smoke working as an enhancement.

“Salmon?” 

“Ja, fanget fersk i dag. Det er nesten kokt, hent de andre.”

“I’m sorry?” He hates to admit he only understood the word yes from the raspy spoken sentences. The fisherman’s eyes, icy blue that should be cold as steel but are warm as the summer sky, lift to his chocolate ones and the old man nods towards fish first and then to the cabin. “Done. Eat. Get others.” His English is good, even though his accent is not quite right, the words spoken with a lilt that is unfamiliar to Rick. 

Rick nods in understanding and leaves the warmth of the flames to trek towards the cabin. He knows there are three other people waiting inside in the warmth for the food to be done; his reporter colleague and two others that he hasn’t spoken to yet but who seem like good company. As one should, if they are going to spend the next days together in this wilderness to look at whales. 

Just as Rick opens the door to the cabin to announce that dinner is done, he is stopped in his tracks as the melodic laughter reaches his ears again. Simultaneously his nose is attacked by different smells, in deep contrast with the outside air but no less pleasant. He can pick out scents of herbs in the air (the same as with the fish but stronger), the smell of candle wax, and something unique that he’s never smelled before. It smells like something he’d love to bottle, keep with him until he can pinpoint each and every note. _Is that vanilla? Ginger? A hint of chili? What is that?_

His whole body shivers with the realization and his knees almost buckle with the intenseness of it all. The owner of the laughter from the plane is here, _with him_ , of all places. It punches out all the air in his lungs, the feeling of elation and pure happiness that spreads in his chest. His feelings only grow as he understands that the unique scent belongs to the same person.

The owner of the sound and scent is inside this cabin. Here. And he has a chance.

Translations:

“Lukter godt, ikke sant??” = “Smells good, doesn’t it?”

“Jeg har bodd hele mitt livet i Tromsø og jeg elsker fortsatt lukten av flammende laks. Ville ikke endre det for noe.” = “I have lived my whole life in Tromsø and I still love the smell of blazed salmon. Wouldn’t change it for anything.”

“Ja, fanget fersk i dag. Det er nesten kokt, hent de andre.” = “Yes, caught fresh today. It’s almost cooked, fetch the others.”


	4. Watch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let's go see some orcas.

They look majestic.

Smooth bodies glisten as they break the surface of the sea.

It’s only day three and Rick has already gone through several rolls of film and he’s never been more glad to have packed that extra six-pack as with this rate he’ll run through them as well. But he’s not complaining as the sights have taken his breath away multiple times.

They’ve been following an orca pod for the entire day. It’s composed of five or six big whales and two or three smaller ones. Their guide has told them in broken sentences that most likely the small ones are calves, less than two years old as that’s when they separate from the mother. The leader of the pod, the big female, is most likely 35 to 40 years old and she hopefully has at least ten years to live still.

Rick looks over the railing of the boat, admitting to himself how small he feels in between the two massive fjords. They rise up from the ocean, all massive rock with white tips and they manage to look both intimidating and calming at the same time. For some reason, while Rick is small amongst them, he feels very much safe nestled between.

Maybe it’s the same for the orca pod, why they return to these shores time and time again. Feeling safe and having a good hunting ground is important, there is plenty of seel, haddock, and salmon in the sea for them to enjoy. The familiarity of the currents and waters must also draw them back and Rick hopes that one day he has that same familiarity and draw to a single location. To a single person, someone to call his own. Someone who calls him their own.

The familiar laughter pierces the air once again and that unique scent, with hints of vanilla and ginger, reaches his nostrils. Like a man guilty of a bigger sin, Rick closes his eyes and draws in his breath, enjoying the feeling of your scent spreading across him. He’s not been brave enough to really approach you alone yet, so these moments he cherishes beyond anything as they allow him to be near you, but not look creepy. 

He turns his eyes from the playful animals to the back of the boat where he sees you and your companion. Rick has come to learn your names, some of your interests and that your friend has planned this trip as a present for you as you have never been this far from home. It’s a true adventure, being a little wild and unpredictable before you need to return to your job and life in the corporate wheel. He yearns to learn so much more, to see more of you. 

You laugh again and throw your head back, the beanie pompom on top of your head wobbling with the movement, and Rick’s eyes track it with hunger. He wants to capture that movement on film, the way your neck curves beautifully in the V of your slightly open jacket and how your hand's gesture around wildly as you keep laughing. The way you hop from one leg to the other, trying to keep warm in the frigid air. How he wants to duplicate that look in your laughing eyes on photo paper and hang it up in a gallery, for everyone to see and admire.

The boat turns a little, following the pod as they start to head down one of the streams and suddenly you are in a perfect position with the fjords. “Please, stay still!” Rick cries out and rushes towards you and your friend.

You look at him with open eyes, curious of this American photographer who seems to be too happy in this cold weather, especially since his fingers must be freezing when he’s constantly losing his gloves to handle his camera. His long legs, encased in denim, make him look both elegant and clumsy at the same time. It’s endearing to you.

“May I please take your picture?” Rick asks, already fumbling with his lens cover as he desperately wants to see this image you and the fjords create on film. You nod your consent slowly, though he suspects you feel a little uncertain at the idea of being photographed.

“I… I can send it to you afterward, so you can have a memory of this day.” He rushes out, the lens cover finally in the pocket of his jeans, his gloves thrown on the floor of the boat, again, and camera halfway up his face. He chances a small peek at you from over his camera before going back to fiddling with his settings. He has one shot before the boat turns again and he has to make it perfect. 

“You just…. You look very pretty like this and the fjords look so, umm, big and menacing and I find the contradiction fascinating. So, is that okay?” He mumbles, keeping his camera on his face to avoid looking at you directly, less his eyes be burned by your beauty. 

He’s already been burned by it, this morning when he stumbled into the little kitchen of the cabin and he saw you making coffee, your thin thermals leaving little to his overworking imagination. Rick had retreated to his room fully red and more in love with you than the previous morning. He was embarrassed by his strong reaction to you and had skipped breakfast altogether. Not the smartest idea but better than to suffer through the joint breakfast with a delicate situation inside his pants. 

“Of course, fire away Rick.” You smile at his explanation and sudden shyness. Your smile widens as you get a peek at his ears, burning red again and not just from the cold. It looks sweet, he looks very sweet. He is a walking mystery, hiding under that hair and glasses, so thoughtful of others, clearly restraining himself so that he doesn’t seem too overpowering. Well, until he gets going with one of his stories, then he is unstoppable. His voice is pleasant though, so excited when he regals one of his tales and you have found yourself pulled into his stories more often than not. 

“Please, keep the position,” Rick tells you and kneels down on the boat floor to capture the height of the mountains behind you. Through his lens, he lets himself fully absorb the sight in front of him for a moment, the V of the jacket, your neck, and your legs, the fjords, everything, before asking you to smile. As he witnesses your teeth, he presses on the shutter and lets the image burn into his film and his mind.

_Beautiful._


	5. Taste

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We finally have the final sense, Taste. Guess what Rick might be tasting?

“I like your legs.”

“Umm, sorry, what?” Rick is perplexed at your comment as the two of you sit on the comfy armchairs in the cabin. No one has ever, in all of his time on this Earth, said that they like his legs. He’s been called Bambi by his classmates, gangly and much, much worse by so many others. He’s been mocked for them, left a store empty-handed more than once as they haven’t carried his size, his length. He himself finds them too pasty, too thin, too chicken-like. But you like them? How can you like them?

“I mean it, Rick. Your legs look amazing.”You smile at him, your cup of coffee hiding your lower lip from him. How he wants to taste that visible bow, enjoy the sweet nectar directly from your lips, lick that errand drop of liquid gold from the corner of your mouth before devouring you in kisses.

“Thanks, I guess?” He muses, placing his empty cup on the table between the chairs. It’s already late, the others have turned in for the night but Rick is determined to see the northern lights. Their guide has informed them that tonight is the best chance, the optimal weather, and Rick wants to capture them on film, maybe even more than he wants to kiss you. Maybe.

And should he be lucky enough, maybe both those hopes come true tonight as you’ve opted to stay up with him to see the dance of light. So you’ve spent the last two hours getting to know Rick and vice versa, talking about everything and nothing.

“I hope you believe me.”

“Why?” It’s out of his mouth quicker than he can try to swallow the question. Rick quickly ducks his head, allows his hair to fall over his face so you don’t see his embarrassment over it. But the damage is already done, the word is out of his mouth and he can only taste the bitter aftertaste as he anxiously waits for your reply. 

You shrug and place your mug next to his on the table. You regard the man in front of you, all long limbs encased in denim and comfortable green sweater, soft dark hair falling down in waves. Even his beard looks soft and you find yourself wanting to scratch it, make him purr. Rick keeps his eyes downcast and you want him to look at you, just as you want to look at his gorgeous features. 

“They look strong. They look powerful like you can hold the weight of the world on your shoulders and your legs will carry you. I like how the denim looks on you, it’s a good look. Sexy even.” You offer, hands on your lap to avoid any nervous tics your hands do. His chocolate eyes lift to yours and suddenly the world stops spinning. The time stops, everything else ceases to exist as you regard one another. 

“You… you, find me sexy? You, the most beautiful creature I’ve had the pleasure of seeing here, you?” Rick whispers, afraid that he’s heard wrong and the spell gets broken. 

You nod, licking at your lip and he hones on it with single-minded clarity. That small drop of saliva left behind pulls at him, like a moth to a flame. 

You watch him move from his chair, sidestepping the table as his long, powerful legs carry him over to you. Rick kneels in front of you, slowly spreading your knees to fit his massive frame there. His hands are like fire as they smooth over your knees and thighs, flames ghosting on your skin from over your leggings and you shiver with the sensation. 

“Can I, uh, can I kiss you?” 

“Please.” The first press of his lips to yours is tentative, soft, unsure. Testing waters, see if they can carry the weight. If you fit together, even with his large nose that has a habit of bumping into eyes or cheeks. It is just a press of the lips, for a mere moment before he separates from you, eyes big and passionate as Rick gazes down on your own. Whatever he sees in your eyes must please him, agree with him as he surges forward, kissing you with more urgency. 

You taste like heaven, Rick decides as his lips move against you. Like coffee, like sea salt, thyme and sage, and a myriad of other spices. He finds notes of chili in there, some ginger, same as with your scent and he could keep kissing you until the end of his days, enjoying the palette.

He tastes like the winter air, all crispy and cool, with a tiny hint of chocolate and orange. You lick his lips, eager to gain entrance to his mouth, to taste more of the combination and he is quick to allow you in. 

As tongues battle, Rick wraps his arms around you tighter, pulling you to the edge of the seat, as close as he can get to you in this position. It’s a bit awkward, his knees protesting against the hardwood, but you are too consumed by the kisses to care.

You devour each other, exploring each and every inch of your mouths, lost in sensation until the need for air becomes too much. And even then, Rick is reluctant to leave your taste behind, chasing your lips as you separate. He breathes hard through his nose and you are no better, feeling like you’ve just climbed a mountain. Lips are puffy, wet from saliva and glistening, and he has never seen anything more magical in all his travels. 

“The lights, Rick.” You murmur against his lips, finding them almost too irresistible. 

“The lights?” He feels lightheaded, dizzy as he nuzzles your cheek. “Oh, right. The northern lights.”

You smile softly at him as you put your hands on his face and pull him away from you, so you can look at his chocolate eyes, warm and tender, yet with an underline of hunger in them.

“You said you wanted to capture the northern lights for your coffee table book. We should head outside for them.” He ponders your words for a moment, clearly weighing his need and drive for photography with this moment, with your kisses.

Rick knows he wants those photos, there is no guarantee that he’ll get another chance like this one. He really should end this here, grab his kit and his jacket, head outside for a couple of hours and take photos. _Maybe he could ask you to model for him under the lights?_

It would look cool, you’d only be a silhouette with the darkness around you and just the strings of light above. Hues of green, blue, and pink would dance on your skin, your body, and on the sky. It would create an almost kaleidoscopic effect, how the intensity of the color would shift with every turn and flicker. How the ribbons in the sky will look like they stretch out of your hands if you raise them up, you body swinging back and forth in an unheard rhythm, together as one with the beams. 

Rick can already picture the end product. _Is it too forward to ask you to pose only in your thermals so he can capture this?_

You raise an eyebrow at him, clearly amused by his internal debate. Your upper lip curls upward a bit, a half-smile that is too tempting for him.

“Fuck the lights. There’s always tomorrow.” He responds and pulls you up from the chair, chest to chest. He wants to giggle, to laugh at this euphoric feeling that you want him too and he finally has you in his arms. But more than that, he wants to taste you again, kiss you until stars dance behind his eyelids and your sounds of pleasure fill his ears. The lights can wait, this cannot. 

Strong arms wrap around your middle as he bends down to capture your lips again. This is like coming home. And it feels glorious, Rick decides as you succumb to the vortex, your mouths, and tongues battling for dominance. This is what he wants every day for the rest of his life, to kiss you and lose himself in your scent, your touch, your taste. 

After some time, maybe minutes, maybe hours, he takes control. Keeping your mouth busy, swallowing your gasps hungrily, Rick lets his hands glide down your sweater to your hips and he taps his fingers there, urging you to hop up. 

The taste of your mouth is no longer enough. He wants to taste you all over and give you an example of how powerful his legs are when he carries you to his room. 

Besides, he’s got a window facing north in his bedroom, you can enjoy the dance of the colors there too. 

Eventually.


End file.
